in the morning (you'll just hate yourself)
by shineyma
Summary: For reasons unknown, HYDRA has developed a chemical sex pollen with an emotional component. For Jemma, whose heart still (unfortunately) belongs to the traitor in the basement, this is something of a problem.


A/N: I am ridiculous and self-destructive, so instead of studying for the VERY IMPORTANT midterm I have tonight, I wrote this. So I hope you enjoy it because I may have done serious damage to my academic career in writing it.

Title from The Script's _Fall for Anything_. Thanks for reading, and please be gentle if you review!

* * *

She would never say so aloud, but part of Jemma (a very small part, of which she is, admittedly, not proud) actually resents being forced to dumb down everything she says immediately after saying it. Science is beautiful and she is, at the risk of sounding arrogant, absolutely brilliant, and just once she'd like one of the others to be appreciative of that instead of staring blankly at her and saying, "And in English, that would mean…?"

Fitz, bless him, knows exactly how she feels about it, for all that she's never said anything, and often takes over for her at that point. It's practical as well as kind, since he's better at coaching advanced scientific concepts in simple words than she is (and part of her resents that, too, even as most of her appreciates it; she doesn't like not being good at things), and he's never made her feel badly about it.

She feels badly about it nonetheless, of course. She knows it's not the others' fault that they don't understand her when she "speaks science"—after all, she has two PhDs and a handful of other, less advanced degrees to go with them, and most of her team hasn't taken a science course since high school.

Still, it inevitably annoys her every time she's asked to restate what she's just said, and today is no exception.

In fact, today is a little worse.

That, however, is nothing to do with being asked to explain herself and everything to do with the subject matter. She runs a hand through her hair and paces away, frustrated, as Fitz takes over.

"Essentially, it's a sex pollen," he says, in a tone which suggests he knows exactly what sort of reaction the statement will receive.

Sure enough, Skye laughs.

"Seriously?" she asks. "HYDRA's taking tips from Star Trek, now?"

"It would appear so," he answers, with great dignity. "But unfortunately, they've made a few modifications from the standard sci-fi trope."

"Such as?" May prompts. She looks much less amused than Skye.

"Such as the fact that if left," Fitz hesitates. "_Unsatisfied_, an infected person will shortly suffer cardiac arrest and die."

"Oh," Skye says.

"Yes, oh," Fitz agrees. "And that's not all."

"Really?" Hunter asks, annoyed. "Fuck-or-die isn't enough?"

"Apparently not," Fitz says. "There's an emotional component."

"Emotional how?"

Fitz gives Jemma a sideways glance, and she clears her throat. She keeps her voice as even as possible as she picks up his cue.

"The pollen will drive anyone suffering under its influence to seek out the person to whom they hold the strongest emotional attachment. Attempts to sate the urges it creates with anyone else will be entirely unsuccessful, and will have the same consequences as not attempting to sate them at all."

There's a long, awkward silence as everyone absorbs her words. Bobbi and Hunter are determinedly not looking at one another (honestly, as though they're fooling _anyone_), Skye is giving Trip a thoughtful look, and Fitz is obviously trying to pretend Mack isn't standing right next to him and just as clearly failing.

Eventually, Coulson coughs. She submitted her report on the pollen before the briefing, and it's obvious he actually read this one, because he's plainly not been caught off-guard the way the rest of the team has.

"It goes without saying that the goal for the mission will be to _avoid_ getting infected," he says wryly. "However, accidents do happen, and our luck hasn't been great lately. With that in mind," he pins them all with a stern look, "We're going to do this as carefully and consensually as possible." He folds his hands, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "At the risk of sounding trite, I need all of you to be honest, on this one—both with yourselves and with each other. Figure out who the pollen will draw you to and, if it's someone you're not comfortable…engaging in intercourse with, don't go on the mission."

He pauses and clears his throat.

"This is a volunteer mission only. There's no shame in backing out, and you'll face no penalties for it. That said, if you _are_ going on the mission, you'll need to see me beforehand to register your consent to intercourse with the person the pollen will draw you to. No registered consent, no mission. Is that clear?"

There are a few vaguely muttered agreements, and Jemma would be amused by the clear discomfort on everyone's faces if it weren't for the pit of dread in her stomach. She's the exception to the volunteer basis of the mission, she knows; this is an operation that calls for a biochemist, and she's the only one they've got.

Which is…problematic, considering the circumstances.

"Wheels up in two hours," Coulson concludes. "Talk amongst yourselves, figure things out, and see me with your answer as soon as possible."

He dismisses the briefing, and—with a look—indicates that Jemma should follow him to his office. She does so, and is grateful to see that the others are far too distracted to notice it. If any of them gave it any thought, they'd draw a certain undeniable conclusion about the pollen's likely effect on Jemma, and that's the last thing she wants.

When they reach his office, Coulson gestures to a chair as he closes the door behind them.

"Have a seat, Jemma," he invites. His expression is sympathetic as he sits behind his desk, and she looks down at her hands, unable to stand it. "I'm assuming you know why I've asked you here."

"I have to go on the mission," she says. "It won't work without me."

"It won't," he agrees, and clears his throat. "Am I right in assuming that, should you be infected, the pollen will draw you to…?"

"Ward," she completes, quietly, when he trails off. "Yes."

She wishes it weren't true—that it weren't obvious—but it is. Ward is a traitor and a liar and a murderer, but he was her husband long before he was those things (or long before she _knew_ he was those things, at least), and she's not yet managed to break the hold he has on her heart.

She's working on it.

Coulson clears his throat again, looking entirely at a loss.

"Could we…lock you in your lab?" he asks. "Let you work on finding a cure?"

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I'm afraid not. Even assuming that I could devise a successful counter on the very first try, it would simply take too long. I'd be dead before the first tests finished running."

"So…"

"So my only choices are to let myself die," she says. "Or go into the Vault."

Coulson grimaces. It's obvious he knew exactly where that statement was going, but was clinging to the hope that he was wrong. She wishes he were.

Even putting aside the fact that she would really rather never see her ex-husband again, let alone have sex with him (and she will ignore the very large part of her which has been yearning for his touch for months, because sooner or later it will go away and in the meantime acknowledging it only makes it worse), going into the Vault is not without risk.

The _level_ of risk, however, is debatable.

For all of his many, many crimes, Ward has never actually harmed her—has, in fact, more than once gone out of his way to avoid doing so. But that doesn't mean that he wouldn't harm her now, should he find her locked in his cell with him. And beyond that, there are several unpleasant things he could do that wouldn't fall under the exact definition of harm.

If nothing else, going into his cell would give him a hostage. They've been careful never to give him an inch—to not give him the slightest advantage he could use to escape—and he could bargain for more than just that if he held Jemma's life in his hands.

"A compromise," she says, finally. "I'll give my consent that, should I become infected, I be taken into the Vault to…work it off with Ward—should _he_ consent, that is." She meets Coulson's eyes solidly, trying to convey the importance of what she says next. "But in return, I want _your_ word, sir."

"What kind of word?"

"Should Ward attempt to take advantage of the situation," she says. "Demanding freedom—or worse—in exchange for my life, I want you to refuse any trade he offers."

Coulson looks uneasy. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if it comes down to a choice between freeing him and letting me die, you should let me die," she says.

"Simmons—"

"Director," she interrupts firmly. "I want your word."

After a long moment, he sighs. "You have it."

"Then I'll register my consent," she says. Her voice wavers slightly, but he's kind enough to ignore it; he simply pulls a form out of a folder waiting on his desk and hands it over.

She fills it out quickly and automatically, refusing to let her mind linger on exactly what she's consenting to, and makes it all the way to the end without losing her composure. When it comes time to sign her name, however, her hand shakes.

"It's just a precaution, Jemma," Coulson says, kindly, as he takes the form back. "With any luck, no one will be infected at all."

"Yes," she agrees. "With any luck."

x

Naturally, they are _not_ lucky. The mission goes awry at the very end, and Jemma, Skye, and Hunter are all exposed to the pollen.

There is a _bit_ of luck in that the effects take a while to hit, so they're able to make it safely back to the Playground without trouble. It's not much in the way of consolation, but it's something.

The others call ahead to inform Coulson, and he's waiting for them in hangar when they land. He dismisses Skye and Hunter to their respective rooms, politely ignores that Trip and Bobbi aren't far behind, and leads Jemma back to his office.

"I'm going to have a word with Ward," he says, motioning her to a seat. "Can you wait a few minutes?"

The pollen's effects are setting in; there's sweat beading at her temples and heat pooling between her thighs already, and has been for the last ten minutes or so. Still, she nods.

"A few minutes," she agrees. Her hands are shaking, so she folds them. "But…hurry, please."

"I'll be right back," he promises. "Just hold on."

Then he's gone, and she's alone. There's a painful clench low in her abdomen, and she closes her eyes. She tries not to think of the reports she read on HYDRA's experiments with the chemical, of the pain she knows awaits her if Ward, for whatever reason, refuses to cooperate. Cardiac arrest will kill her within two hours, but before that she will suffer an unquenchable lust specifically designed to hurt.

Thinking of Ward is a mistake. The usual confusing tangle of emotions she feels towards him is absent at the moment, entirely lost in her lust, and all she can think about is sex with him. She finds herself replaying, in excruciating detail, the last time he touched her—and the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before that.

In their bed at home, in their bunk on the Bus, in the shower, in a random closet, on their living room floor—she relives, in full color, exactly how skilled he is at bringing her pleasure, and has to bite back a whimper.

She needs him.

She can hear the clock on the wall ticking as the seconds pass, and her heart pounds in time with it. She crosses and uncrosses her legs, keeping her fingers laced tightly together through sheer force of will. She is _not_ going to touch herself in her commanding officer's office. She's not. It would be inappropriate and humiliating and he is going to be back _any second_.

She's dangerously close to doing it anyway when he returns.

"All right," he says. "Come on."

He looks unhappy, but he leads her straight to the Vault without commenting. He knows just as well as she does that she doesn't have a choice in this—and at this point, she doesn't want one. She _needs_ Grant, needs him like she needs air, and the sooner she gets to him, the better.

Coulson is speaking as they descend the stairs—words she registers without really hearing, promises that the cameras will be turned off and the barrier made opaque, that all she has to do is knock on it when she's done and she'll be let out, that Ward has promised not to hurt her—but her eyes are locked on Ward.

His eyes, in return, are locked on her, and even from this distance she can see the heat in them.

He can't possibly want her as much as she wants him, but knowing that he _does_ want her soothes an ache she didn't even realize she was feeling. Unfortunately, it doesn't do much for her control. Her lust is starting to overwhelm her, and though she can see that Coulson is addressing Ward, she can't hear the words at all.

She needs to wait. Just a little longer, just until the barrier is gone, just until Coulson leaves. Just a little longer.

She's so focused on keeping herself still, on _not_ simply stripping her clothes off right here in front of Coulson and the still-active cameras and then throwing herself at the barrier, that she doesn't even notice when he deactivates it.

He gives a gentle shove to her shoulder, sending her stumbling into the cell, and she hears the barrier snap back into place almost before she's over the line. It goes opaque immediately after, and she's left closed in a tiny cell with her murderer of an ex-husband.

But there's no room for fear or anger in her; she can't feel anything at all outside of the painful desperation the sex pollen has instilled in her, and she throws herself at him without thought.

He returns her desperate kiss eagerly, mouth fierce against hers and fingers twisting in her hair. Just his touch is enough to ease her, but only barely, and she breaks the kiss long before the need for oxygen would demand.

"Grant," she says, and it takes her a moment to realize why it makes him grin. She hasn't called him anything but Ward since the day he revealed his true allegiance.

"Don't worry, Jem," he says, and kisses her again. (It's different with the beard, and she's grateful for it; she won't be able to forget, even for a second, that this man is not actually her husband.) "I'll take good care of you."

There's no further preamble. He helps her strip hurriedly, nearly tearing her bra in his haste, and she manages to tug off his shirt but doesn't get to his trousers before he's pushing her down to the bed.

He pins her under him and kisses her—a harsh, filthy kiss, full of promises she knows very well he can keep—as his fingers slide between her folds. She's already wet, of course—has been for what feels like hours, though it can't have even been twenty minutes since the effects of the pollen hit—and the first brush of his fingers against her clit has her hips bucking entirely of their own accord.

"Poor Jemma," he murmurs, breaking the kiss. "You're just dying for me, aren't you?"

She'd like to offer some response, some cutting insult or witty sarcasm that will wipe the smirk off of his face, but she can't think past the slide of his delightfully callused fingers, and he's already moving on before she can try, kissing his way down her body to pay proper attention to her needs.

He brings her to orgasm again and again, with his mouth and then his fingers and then his mouth _and_ his fingers, but it barely takes the edge off at all. The beard, rough against her over-sensitive skin, makes it interesting, but in a good way; she's always liked it a bit rough, a little pain to go with her pleasure, and it helps a little.

Grant himself is hardly gentle—there's a viciousness to him that's never been present in their bed before, and she finds herself wishing he had shown it earlier even as she misses the man he used to be.

But it's only a brief flicker of a thought before desperation overwhelms her once more. It's not enough.

He's working her towards the edge of her seventh orgasm (and the pollen means that she's not sore or tired at all, but certainly _he _must be, by this point; she's impressed that his fingers aren't cramping) when she finally manages to think through the painful lust long enough to form a hypothesis as to why the first six barely eased her.

"Grant," she gasps out, tugging at his hair. Her voice is already hoarse from begging and screaming, and she has the passing thought that she probably won't be able to speak at all tomorrow. "I need—ah!—I need you _inside_ me, it's not enough, I need—"

"Don't rush me," he scolds. He delivers a sharp bite to her inner thigh, then soothes it with his tongue, and all she can do is whimper. "We'll get there."

He brings her off twice more with his fingers before he finally moves up her body. He bites and kisses his way back up her torso, lingers on her breasts as he shucks the scrub bottoms he's wearing, and she fists her hands in the sheets and _begs_.

When he _finally_ slides into her, an eternity later, her hypothesis is proven correct. Just that much, having him actually inside of her, eases her desperation more than the nine orgasms he gave her combined. She keens as she digs her nails into his back, urging him to _move_—she's so close already, and somehow she knows that _this_ will be the one that does the trick, that finally lightens, if not ends, the painful drive she's feeling—and he does. At first.

His thrusts are jarring and he's sucking a mark into her neck that she _knows_ will last for more than a week and he's got two fingers circling her painfully swollen clit and she's so close that she can't even breathe—

And then he stills.

"Wait."

"No," she whines. "No, Grant, please—"

She's so close, she's so, so close—she bucks her hips, hoping it will be enough, but he holds her in place with one arm, stopping that attempt, and traps both her wrists in his other hand before she can try using her fingers—and it's painful, how close she is—

She's begging, so lost in desperation that she can't even track the words tripping off of her tongue, barely aware of a long line of _please_s and _Grant_s, until his laugh stops her (and sends shivers down her spine; there's something dark in it that makes her bite down hard on her lower lip).

"I'll give you what you want," he promises, lowly. "I just have one question for you first."

"Anything," she promises wildly. "Anything, just please—"

"Why me?" he asks.

"What?" she asks. "I don't understand—Grant, _please_—"

He tsks a little, under his breath, and rubs lightly against her clit. It clears some of the haze, enough that she can actually focus a bit on his next words.

"Why are you working this off with me?" he clarifies. "There's a whole base of people up there; why is the enemy your best option?"

"I—" She knows she can't tell him the truth, knows exactly how much of a disaster that would be, but it's so hard to think clearly that she can't find a good excuse. "I wasn't the only one affected, the others—"

"Yeah, Coulson tried that lie on me, too," he says, shaking his head with false regret. He starts to slide out of her, adding, "If you won't be honest with me—"

"No, no, wait," she says—sobs, really. She doesn't want him to know this—she _can't_ let him know this—but she's so close and she _needs_ this and she honestly might die if she doesn't come soon.

He stills, raising an expectant eyebrow.

"The pollen doesn't just randomly induce lust," she says hurriedly. "It doesn't work that way, it affects the—it works off of—"

She breaks off into something perilously close to a whine, trying to think straight, to reach past the haze of lust and desperation for the layman's terms of how she's been influenced. All she can think of is the science, and she knows that if she gives him that he'll just ask for the English version, and it will take _even longer_ for him to give her what she wants.

Perhaps he realizes the trouble she's having, or perhaps there's some sympathy left in him; either way, he rubs at her clit again, slightly firmer this time, and it helps.

"Feelings," she finally manages. "The lust is—is targeted towards the person to whom the infected feels the strongest emotional attachment."

When she opens her eyes—she doesn't even know when she closed them, not that it matters—there's triumph on his face, and it's terrifying.

But he simply says, "That's all I wanted to know," and thrusts back into her.

One—two—three harsh thrusts, his fingers firm against her clit, and she's coming, biting down on his shoulder to muffle her screams. It's the most intense orgasm of her life and it almost _hurts, _but as she starts to come down from it—as he follows her over the edge and collapses on top of her—the desperation fades with it.

The effects of the pollen aren't quite gone, but they've certainly been reduced drastically. She thinks she'll be able to ride them out with no further sexual contact.

Her mind is clear, too, for the first time since the pollen hit. It's…not necessarily a good thing.

She remembers, suddenly and uncomfortably, _exactly_ who she's under and what he's done, and as she comprehends exactly how much power she just gave him with her admittance, she tenses. He smiles against her shoulder, thumb rubbing over the pulse in her right wrist.

"Back to normal?" he asks.

It takes her two tries to speak, because there's a lump of something like misery blocking her throat. Her eyes burn. "Yes."

"Pity," he says, and, with a sigh, rolls off of her and leaves the bed.

She should, too, she knows. She should get dressed and knock on the barrier in the prearranged signal that will let Coulson know they're done so he can drop it and let her out, and she can go back upstairs and get started on pretending this never happened. She should absolutely get up right now.

But she just can't bring herself to move. She's feeling sated and so very well used, for the first time since—well, since the last time, since the flight to LA, when she was frantic with worry for the team and he pulled her into their bunk to distract her.

Unnecessarily, she reminds herself. The team was never in any danger, except from him. He was the wolf in their herd, and she had no idea until that awful moment in the diner, when Skye spun the laptop to face them and spit _Hail HYDRA_ in his face, and the casual arm he'd draped across Jemma's shoulders became abruptly restraining when she started to recoil.

She tries to focus on that memory, on the shock and horror and disgust of it, to use as motivation to move, but she's no sooner started than he's climbing back into bed with her, and to her shame, her motivation is lost.

She hasn't shared a bed with anyone romantically since he was locked up (platonically, yes; for the first six weeks or so after coming to the Playground, she and Skye were sleeping together on a fairly regular basis, trying to chase away their respective demons with the warmth and comfort of another body), and she's weak enough to admit she's missed it. Eight months is a long time, the longest dry spell she's ever had, and as—after this—it will be continuing indefinitely…

She'll allow herself this moment of weakness.

He presses a damp washcloth into her hand as he settles her against his side, and she stares at it blankly for a moment.

"You have a sink?" she asks, somewhat inanely.

Then she wants to hit herself, because of _course_ he has a sink. In her defense, she's never given much thought to the amenities of his cell—hasn't truly allowed herself to think of it, beyond receiving assurances from Coulson that his basic needs were being met. It's too painful, really, dwelling on the fact that he's locked down here, alone, and the worst part is that she's not sure whether she hurts more for herself or for him.

So she tries not to think about it.

She can feel his grin against her temple. "I have a shower, too. Care to try it out?"

"No," she says, flatly, and shifts herself away from him slightly. (She can't go far, of course, as it's a very small bed, but every little bit of distance helps.)

"I just thought you might want to clean yourself up a little," he says, all wounded innocence. He nods at the washcloth. "Unless you'd like me to do it for you?"

"No," she repeats firmly, horrified at the very idea. Somehow, ridiculously, she feels that him cleaning her up would be far too intimate for her to bear.

And what it says about her that she considers _that_ more intimate than the ten screaming orgasms he just gave her…well, she doesn't really want to consider it.

So she cleans herself up as best she can—a delicate process, as the over-sensitivity she was expecting six orgasms ago has set in—and tries to ignore the feeling of his eyes on her and the random patterns he's tracing casually on her skin.

It's too comfortable. It is far, far too comfortable. He is a murderer and a traitor and a liar, and she should _not_ be enjoying his touch, now that the excuse of the pollen is gone.

So she forces herself to move away from him, to stand from the bed and gather her clothes. He sighs as she does so, but makes no attempt to stop her, and something in her chest eases. She hadn't realized until this moment that part of her was afraid—was hoping?—that he wouldn't let her go.

She dresses just as hurriedly as she undressed, and she can feel his eyes on her the whole time. Even without that, though, it would be impossible to pretend that what just happened didn't. She's feeling the results of their marathon session, now—soreness in her muscles, a tenderness in her inner thighs where his beard has scraped her skin, the ache of the developing bruises he left all over her—and she knows she will be for several days to come.

It will take a long time to forget this, to compartmentalize it away with all of her other memories of him. Her heart aches far worse than the rest of her does, and far less pleasantly.

She's just pulling her shirt on when he finally speaks.

"When did you take your ring off?"

"What?" she asks, startled.

"I asked when you took your ring off," he repeats, patiently. He's still lounging on the bed, entirely unashamed of his nudity, and she turns away. "Or maybe a better question would be, when did you put it back on?"

Her mouth goes dry. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," he says. "You took it off and threw it at me before we left LA, remember?"

How could she possibly forget?

"But that was months ago," he continues. "And that tan line on your finger is recent."

She fists her hands, feeling the absurd urge to laugh. Of _course_ he noticed.

"You put it back on," he says. "Why?"

"I had my reasons," she answers, quietly. His eyes are burning into her back, and she wonders what he can read off of her. He can't know that she went undercover, that she traded on his name to earn HYDRA's trust, but can he tell how much part of her enjoyed it, even as it hurt?

No one on the team calls her Ward any longer, but everyone at HYDRA did. And having his ring back on her finger—it was a cold sort of comfort, but it was comfort nonetheless.

Can he read, in the tense line of her shoulders, the fact that she drew strength from the symbol of the lie they lived together?

She hopes not.

"I'm sure you did," he agrees, tone unreadable. She doesn't know what impression she's left him with, but whatever it is, she can't imagine it will end well. For anyone.

It's a ridiculous thought; he's locked in a secure cell and will remain so for the rest of his life. What harm can he do?

It's time for her to leave.

"Wait," he says, as she starts to approach the barrier. She turns to face him as he finally leaves the bed. "Just a second."

She does. She doesn't know why, but she does.

As for why she accepts—and even returns—the parting kiss he gives her, she'll blame it on the pollen's lingering effects.

But she knows that's a lie. And the worst part is…he knows it, too.


End file.
